Three Mafia Heirs: Monster 1

Miley:

I think I’m being

followed.

I can’t see the person, but I can feel their presence and their eyes on me.

I increase my pace to disappear into the faculty building. I study Astronomy at

Lomonosov Moscow State University, and I’ve lived in this city since birth.

D*mn, the hall is far.

Maybe a jog won’t

be a bad idea.

I start to jog.

When I reach the door, I turn to see whoever was following me, but

I just see innocent students walking past me, heading for the doors, talking to each other.

No suspicious faces.

Maybe I’m just

paranoid because I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I kept studying

until dawn.

Lightheaded with relief, I blow out a heavy breath as I stride

inside the hall.

This is the first

class with Professor Horvat.

He told us to call

him Mr. Horvat because being called professor makes him feel old. And yes, he is old—grey hair and wrinkles traced here and there.

Our professor isn't in yet, and the class isn't full, so I ascend the steps to my everyday row.

The third row from the top.

I settle in, swinging my backpack off my shoulders and onto the table.

Thinking...

Mmm. Brushing the thoughts away with a slight shake of my head before they can form.

The hall fills in a few minutes while we wait for our professor.

Then, the sound of heels clicking against the floor snaps me out of my waiting zone. Unfamiliar. They’re clearly not our professor's shoes.

These are bold, heavy, with the faint clinking of chains.

I can feel the whole class holding their breath. Just like me.

The person appears. But before I can look at their face, my eyes drop to the shoes.

Sharp-leather, black, matte, formal boots—wearing chains at the back near the heels.

My eyes trail up, slowly, wanting to take in every inch of this person.

No belt.

The shirt is black,

long-sleeved, tucked loosely into the slacks.

A silver-grey cross chain glints around a Mandarin collar, buttoned tight to the throat.

Then my eyes reach the face.

Gasp.

I gasp out loud, slapping a hand over my mouth instantly.

Vlas.

The mafia heir, Vlas Skalov.

He walks behind the podium.

What?

Why?

Anxiety crawls from my toes straight to my head.

And he’s wearing the bucket hat... black. He always wears that bucket hat.

No one raises a hand to ask why he's here.

No one dares. Every student in this room knows exactly who he is.

He’s famous for killing two police officers two months ago, but he was never arrested. No one knows why. He showed zero mercy on the photo.

“I hope everyone is here. I won’t go through the roll call,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, raspy, and intimidating as f*ck. He lifts a sheet of paper, his knuckles turning white.

Bruised.

Permanent-looking bruises, mixed with fresh ones and a plaster across the bridge of his nose.

Then, the tattoos. Roman numerals inked across his fingers with black rings on his pale olive skin tone.

He continues, “Turn to page one hundred fifty-eight,” his tone an absolute command.

Quickly, we pull out our spherical astronomy textbooks.

He doesn’t look like he’s here for me.

Maybe he didn’t see me last night. I watch his eyes. They’re not searching for me.

Maybe he and our professor know each other, and he was sent to give us an assignment.

But how is he allowed on this campus? How is he allowed to stand in front of us?

I keep my eyes on him while he stares down at the paper.

Suddenly, his eyes snap up, locking directly onto mine. Like he knew exactly where I was sitting. Like he felt my stare all along.

“F*ck,” I murmur, dropping my head into my book.

Then I hear it: “Who’s Miley Dubov?”

Every single eye in the hall lands on me.

My head slowly inclines. My arm resists, heavy as lead, but I force it up.

I raise my hand. Not high, but enough for him to see.

A tight, painful knot hits the pit of my stomach, my body drowning in a pool of pure anxiety.

I can’t breathe.

My eyes feel raw and dry.

My chest tightens, constricting my lungs, starving them of oxygen.

“You dropped your pen last night,” he says.

My pen?

What pen?

The gift from my father. He gave me that fountain pen on my eighteenth birthday, engraved with my full name. I don’t know when last I saw it.

Stainless steel. Silver-grey. Cold as ice to the touch.

My father is a journalist, obsessed with catching a big scoop to land a promotion at work.

Wait. What does Vlas mean, I dropped it last night?

My mind instantly flashes back to last night—

Last night:

“We’ve been walking for two straight hours, Allan,” I pant out.

Gleb is wheezing too, resting his palms on his knees, head hung low.

“Let’s take a break, guys. My feet can’t take another step.”

Mine can't either. I copy Gleb’s position, sucking in deep breaths.

Allan whines, “Come on, it’s literally two meters until we reach the destination.”

“For God’s sake, Allan, take a break! Have mercy on us, or we’re turning back.”

Allan never listens.

He has this condition—when his mind decides he needs to do something, he has to finish it right then and there before resting. He keeps walking toward his phone’s location.

“Sh*t,” I curse, grabbing Gleb’s arm to follow him.

I can’t be left out here alone.

It’s night. Dark, chilly, and dangerous. Even if there aren't sounds of animals or insects, it’s still unsafe.

The trees are tall as f*ck, surrounded by thick brush that could hide anything merciless.

Allan takes huge strides, and I wheeze, “Wait for us, Allan!”

He slows down as we catch up.

Now we walk together, guided only by the flashlights on our phones.

Allan bought a new phone, but his old one is still linked to ours for tracking.

Allan, Gleb, and I started being friends this year as we are third-year students in different majors.

The overgrown brush makes walking nearly impossible, draining our already numb limbs.

We step into tall, thick grass, wading through behind Allan.

Suddenly, Allan comes to a halt with a harsh, “Shhh.”

He gestures for me and Gleb to stay quiet, crouching behind a wide tree stump. “Do you hear that?”

My heart races before my ears can register a sound.

“Shovels,” Gleb whispers, and then I hear it too.

We check the tracker. It shows we’re barely a meter away from Allan’s phone.

My phone alarm goes off.

“F*ck,” I mutter, hands trembling as I frantically try to silence it.

A voice echoes through the dark—deep, threatening, gravelly. “Who’s there?”

“Let’s run,” Allan says.

Without even straightening up, we scramble backward, practically crawling in a panic. But we can't keep pace crouched down, so we bolt upright and run for our lives.

I try not to look back, but something forces my head around.

F*ck it.

I look back and see three men. Not just one.

Three monsters from the mafia heir’s crew chasing us. No masks. Their faces solid and terrifying. They look like they want to catch us, throw our breathing bodies into a pit, and shovel dirt over us alive.

Gleb turns to look, screams, loses his balance, and slams hard onto the ground.

Panting, I grab his arm as hard as I can, dragging him up to run before letting go. Allan is already way ahead of us—like he wasn't the one who dragged us here for his stupid phone in the first place.

I can’t let those monsters catch me. I just hope they didn't see my face, or they'll tear me apart.

Wait... Am I going to die out here just so I can't breathe a word about what I saw?

No way.

I increase my pace.

“Run faster!” I wheeze at Gleb.

He’s running like a spoiled brat.

I know we aren't athletes or gym rats, but we can't give up and leave our moms searching for bodies that will never be found.

“I don’t think they’re following us anymore,” Gleb slows down, wheezing like his lungs are on fire.

I can’t take it either. I slow down, leaning over with my hands on my knees because they're about to give out.

“Yeah,” Allan breathes hoarsely. “They gave up. We can walk to the car.”

“More like crawl.”

“The road is right there,” Allan points.

I sigh. “We’re not sprinters like you.”

“I just wanted to survive and get out of here,” he defends himself.

“And you’re the one who brought us here,” Gleb snaps, backing me up.

“Fine,” Allan breathes. “I’m sorry.”

Heat flush across my face. I'm sweating in the chilly night air, dirt covering our clothes.

We walk to Allan’s car—a red Kia Rio his dad bought him this year. We came in the same car.

We live off-campus.

And now, he’s giving me predator eyes.

So lethal like he’d kill me just by staring at me.

I feel a churn in my stomach.

Vlas:

“Miley Dubov,” I muttered, reading the name engraved on the pen as I rotated it between my fingers in my office.

I had ran the name through the university database, and Miley popped up on the screen like a blooming flower—a third-year student studying Astronomy.

I had to check his first-period professor.

Professor Horvat.

I had to put the professor in the hospital. He’ll probably be discharged in a week, but I needed to find out what those boys saw last night.

We saw flashlights. They obviously took pictures and videos.

I had gotten a text saying if I wanted to know who framed me for the murder of those two police officers, I should follow a specific location.

Right now, Tikhon and Kondra are on the trail of the other two friends.

Tikhon, Kondra, and I are brothers—not by blood, but all adopted by a monster of a man who turned us into monsters. Not that we’re complaining.

The orphanages were wo